


Water Rusts Metal

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-25
Updated: 2005-11-25
Packaged: 2018-10-27 17:23:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10813449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: Neville thought funerals were rather pointless.





	Water Rusts Metal

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes: Written for Flora Hart and accidently qualifying for Switchknife's [Death Challenge](http://www.livejournal.com/users/switchknife/97022.html). **Warnings:** Character death.  


* * *

Neville thought funerals were rather pointless. They certainly did nothing for the dead; why would a corpse care if a crowd of people dressed in black gathered in its honour? Only ghosts could attend their own funerals, but there'd be no ghosts today. Heroes don't fear death, after all. 

Some say the rites are for those left behind, but Neville couldn't think of anything less desirable than mourning publicly. Here, he wouldn't wail and cry and, in fact, felt very little at all. The Weasleys pressed in on him from all sides, protecting him from the reporters or maybe expecting him to break down at any moment, but Neville just stared off into space, forcing himself to blink from time-to-time because that was what he was expected to do. 

A firm hand settled on the small of his back and gently nudged him forward, the Red Sea of Weasleys parting, giving him room. Feeling like sinew and bone had been replaced with a complicated system of pulleys and levers, Neville mechanically threw the Ever-Preserved Rose onto the coffin, listlessly staring at its polished surface. He could play this part because it wasn't Harry in there. It was all some sort of mistake, a cosmic joke played on the ultimate loser, because Harry fulfilled that damned prophesy and vanquished Voldemort and he was supposed to have had a happy, long life. Because heroes die gloriously in battle. Because they don't slip on puddles of water in bathrooms after calling to their lovers to join them. Because Harry was larger than life and there was no fucking way he could fit in a tiny pine box. The box simply must be empty. 

Neville stared at the red splotch on top of glossy wood and found it all a little silly. The strong hand on his back again, Neville let himself be led away, not bothering to glance over his shoulder as he went. 

***

Afterwards, he'd been coaxed back to the Burrow by Hermione, whose tear-tracks still stained her face. Neville considered mentioning how blotchy her cheeks were, but thought better of it. Instead, he nodded and Hermione vaguely patted his hand in reply. Seated around the kitchen table, Neville half-listened as they shared stories about Harry -- only happy ones because of some unwritten rule about what stories are safe when someone has passed. 

A strangled laugh escaped from his throat, drawing stares in his direction, but he didn't explain a thing. He couldn't tell them how stupid the idea of passing was, like life is some sort of test and death is the ultimate N.E.W.T. He couldn't tell them the last happy memory he and Harry made, sweaty and clutching each other, Harry's breathy moans of "love you, love you" growing louder and louder until they came together. How Harry had pulled away, sticky and grinning, and ran off to their shower. 

The next memory, Neville knew, wasn't happy anymore. 

Charlie poured them all shots of Firewhiskey and the others drank to Harry and to Bill and to everyone else they'd lost. Neville just drank because it was there and it made the edges of consciousness fuzzy. Each shot burned as it travelled down his throat and Neville wondered if his insides might rust. 

Ron, who buried his face in Hermione's hair, was out first. He'd never been able to hold his liquor and was regularly drunk under the table by everyone, even the girls. Arms slung over Ginny and Hermione's shoulders, Ron slurred his farewells, occasionally punctuating the words with a giggle or a sob. The twins escorted Percy out next, making sure he was sober enough to Floo home, leaving Charlie and Neville alone. The two of them finished the bottle. 

For Neville, who'd already been walking around in a stupor, the whiskey caused life to take on a distinctly dream-like quality. Things would fade to grey, then he'd catch a snatch of Charlie talking about new Finnish Leatherwing he was breaking in. Neville nodded, then slumped a bit further in his chair, and fazed out again. The next time, there was a hand on his knee, Charlie nervously asking, "I can make you feel better for a little while, if you want. C-can I help?" and Neville smiled vaguely, nodded again, and patted Charlie's hand. He closed his eyes for a minute, opening them when he felt warm lips cover his own. Neville wondered if Harry would mind because being drunk certainly wasn't an excuse for this, but Charlie was so warm and Neville thought he might want to be warm, too. 

Neville finally made a sound when Charlie slipped a hand under his shirt, feeling fingers scrape his skin. His body wasn't like Harry's (actually, it was closer to Neville's own body -- solid and dependable), but his hands were the hands of an athlete, covered in calluses, fingers strong and nimble. _A Seeker's hands_ , Neville realised as he closed his eyes and pretended Charlie wasn't Charlie. Those fingers deftly undid the clasps of his robes, the sturdy body slid between Neville's legs, parting them in the process, and Charlie's mouth -- which was as warm as the rest of him -- coaxed Neville to hardness. 

Charlie's hands were now on Neville's legs, as he sucked slowly, almost tenderly, and Neville tangled his hands in hair that was too short and too bright, but he was drunk and numb, so he easily imagined it was messy and dark. Neville moved his hips to meet Charlie's mouth over and over, then he was coming and shouting Harry's name. Charlie didn't seem to mind and even pushed Neville's hands away from the waistband of the Muggle jeans he'd changed into, but he insisted because it was polite and he thought his joints could remember up and down. Charlie buried his face in Neville's shoulder, letting out little moans and cries, and came all over Neville's hand. 

Afterwards, Charlie admitted, "I've never done that in my parents' kitchen." Neville smiled because he knew that was a joke, then excused himself so he could wash up, thinking there might be puddles on the floor. 


End file.
